thugs

Because I am not old enough to practice the arts of self-restraint, I will endeavor today to regale you with a tale of four fucking niggers who picked a sore day to harass me.

I was walking out of the BART station, near the parking lot, on my way home. I was thinking about Homer's Odyssey, translated by Richmond Lattimore. I was focused particularly on how Homer keeps reusing the same line "When Dawn showed again with her rosy fingers" to talk about the morning sunrise. I read somewhere about Emily Dickinson comparing the sunrise to ribbons.

So I was absorbed in wondering why and how poets would compare sunrise to fingers or ribbons, which I couldn't figure out, when four niggers walking ahead of me turned around. One of them said something that I couldn't understand.

When I asked to hear again two times, he said more loudly and clearly, "Can I borrow fuckin' dollar?"

To which I replied, "No."

He turned a darker shade, if that was even possible. He glowered more angrily, "I said, can I borrow a fuckin' dollar?"

To which I replied again, "No."

At which point, one of the others niggers poked me in the jacket. With that dope gangster way, he splayed his arms to provoke me. He was a short and fat. The other two niggers just swung aside from me, leaving me for the most part alone.

I was half-worried that they would push me down the steps, but I just glared at the first nigger, a mere inch taller than me, and probably stronger, half understanding his intentions, and fully comprehending his insignificance, and kept walking. He will have his own women to fuck, and populate his house with emblems of his poverty, before sending the young birdlings away to harass more people for borrowing a fuckin' dollar. He followed.

So I stared at the first, so alarmingly dislocated in his mentality, an obviously hormonal maladjusted suburbanite more focused on upholding his male image in front of his peers. He jerked his torso at me with a face veiled in threat. I could see him evaluating his risk, benefits, and probability of success with harassing me.

I felt my heart beating faster. Was I prepared to fight? I had little to no trainings in martial arts or self-defense. I approached him back in a threatening manner, knowing full well that all four of them could beat me up. He slithered backward, while still muttering some curses at me.

Then I realized that the gods had sent me to do something, which was to talk. Because I knew that when I was young, I could not say a word to express any of my thoughts. When I was given a wedgie, I had no idea what to do except to act like an animal in trying to punch the other guy ineffectively, or to do my best to get out.

I didn't think of screaming. I didn't think of saying, "Stop!" Silence was simply a thing I was used to. It is an example of the listless childhood of being at loss for words that many children born deaf to hearing parents experience, when they cannot express themselves, whether by taunting, by examples of cruelty, or by consolidating themselves with peers for defense (as all little boys and girls are wont to do). I had no peers. My hearing loss was a barrier to participate in the necessary hierarchy, the pecking order in this poor game of life.

But the gods sent me something. They bid me to talk. I said to the four niggers, in stumbling words with grammarless structure that could only come from moments of incensed passion in pre-linguistic people, "You want me to go an' report? The cops are the." I pointed at the other side, where the station guards were, presumably staring with glazed eyes at passengers getting out of the gate.

They backed away, probably not out of fear, perhaps deciding that I was not to be intimidated, but evidently finding that I was not worth a society of personal responsibility.

"You pathetic! Pathetic! Pathetic people! Nothing but thugs." I muttered loudly as I continued walking across the parking lots, and they walked the other way, to the liquor store across the street.

Then I had a moment of pity and appreciation for the store owners, for they face every single day a theft by vulgar people like him. Sure, theft is counted as inventory loss, and society functions not well without adherence to this rule of law.

I know I spent half an hour typing this out of spite, and giving these people more mention in this blog than they deserve. But such a thing passes not lightly before my eyes. They will not be ignored because they are a hindrance to order and stability, while the young cantankerous, rebellious youth grow into grumpy, sad old men, they set us on edge and remind us of life's bitter passages. And tell me of my old grudges that are long forgotten.

Thank you for your time. Read More . . .

I have been rather insulting in this thread. I'll keep it on as a reminder of my intolerance and love of hateful words that I must resolve in myself.